


Help Me There

by sistercacao



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: M/M, POV Heero Yuy, Post-Canon, Preventers (Gundam Wing), Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-25
Updated: 2010-09-25
Packaged: 2019-03-04 14:22:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13366563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sistercacao/pseuds/sistercacao
Summary: Injured after a mission, Heero ruminates on his relationship with Duo and what it means to have him around to help.





	Help Me There

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [Fix Me Up.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13366119)

My target aligned in my sights, I carefully raised my hand. My aim was perfect and steady. I allowed my victim one last second of freedom, then swiftly fired the projectile through the air, a straight shot to the back of the head. Completely unaware, right to the last moment.

“Hey! What gives?” Duo cried as the rubber band ricocheted off the back of his head.

Satisfied, I turned back to my monitor. “You ought to be doing your work.”

Duo quickly minimized the window of the solitaire game he had been playing, revealing the code input box, forgotten, beneath it. “I _am_ doing work!”

“That’s funny, I’m twice as far as you in my coding and I remember you saying you were going to ‘leave my ass in the dust’ this morning,” I replied. I extended and flexed the fingers of my left hand– they were not yet feeling fatigued, but I was beginning to notice the extra strain of making five do the usual work of ten. My right hand rested uselessly on my desk, wrapped so tightly in its white gauze bandages that even my fingers were rendered difficult to move. Certainly they lacked the dexterity necessary to type, and thus my left hand had to suffice for the next several weeks until the protective bandaging came off.

Duo, of course, had not let me hear the end of it. And neither, unfortunately, had anyone else: for the last week, the talk around headquarters has focused on little besides. I’d been asked more times than I could count, or had overheard at times the hushed whispers between coworkers behind my back: how did the great, unstoppable Agent Yuy finally manage to get injured? Duo, who is much more likely to be caught chatting around the water cooler than I am, had told me some of the wild stories circulating around the office regarding the possible circumstances of my injury. Contrary to popular belief, I did not subdue a grizzly bear that was attempting to attack a child at the zoo, though Duo got quite a kick out of that one.

The true story is somewhat less heroic: on our most recent mission– a drug-smuggling bust– Duo and I had gotten the jump on a few of the smugglers, one of whom was carrying a semi-automatic weapon. Disarming him was my first priority; it was only afterward that I realized the inherent flaw in grabbing the semi by the barrel while it was still smoking hot from being fired, and continuing to grip it while I used it to hit the guy in the face. Specifically, it was while I was in the hospital, being treated for severe second-degree burns, and Duo was hovering in the room and fluctuating between worried anxiety and manic frivolity.

It was fortunate that my body has an abnormally high recovery rate, because I was already tired of making do without the use of my dominant hand. The doctors had, at my forceful insistence, agreed to check the healing progress at the end of this week, though they “strongly recommended” that I wait the full three weeks before removing the bandages. Duo answered for me then, telling them that there was “fat chance” of me listening to their advice.

I wiggled the fingers of my right hand as much as I could as the doctors’ advice repeated in my mind. My left hand flew over the keyboard, lines of code on screen forming the parameters for the training simulation we had been assigned to program. Une is loathe to let her agents go to waste– not that time off would have rested well with me. I don’t enjoy feeling purposeless. My typing speed was hampered by my injury, but I was still averaging above one hundred words per minute. Aggravatingly slow, but acceptable considering the circumstances.

At my goading, Duo snorted and rolled his eyes. “Just you wait and see, Lefty,” he said, making full use of his new nickname for me, “I’ll have your ass eating my dust yet!” With that, he finally returned to his code, skimming his progress before resting his hands confidently on the keys. The room was soon filled with the familiar sound of typing, and I let my mind wander as I entered line after line of code.

Mostly, I was buzzing with the week-long frustration of working around my injury. I am nearly fully ambidextrous; I can type, write, somersault, and shoot a gun with my left hand as comfortably as with my right. But, as I had discovered in the last week, not all of my abilities fared as well when I was forced to perform them left-handed. Such as...

Well, there _was_ the one particular exercise I had significant difficulty with: it had been exactly eight days and thirteen hours since I last masturbated.

It was somewhat embarrassing to admit that this was the most irritating consequence of losing my dominant hand, and thinking of it then in the office, my eyes inadvertently traveled over Duo’s turned back and I had to wonder if perhaps it was his presence that forced the subject to the forefront of my mind. Regardless, the fact remained that the lack of sexual release had begun to take its toll on me in a way I hadn’t anticipated. At first, I had attempted to perform with my left hand; while it did the job reasonably well, I found to my dismay that it felt unusually uncomfortable and awkward, failing to bring the expected satisfaction of the act. I hadn’t bothered to try again.

The fact of the matter was, I was surprised at my own frustrations. During the wars, I rarely masturbated more than once a week, often going several weeks at a time without feeling it necessary to do so. As I’ve become more acclimated to peacetime and the relative security of day-to-day existence, however, I’ve found that the number of times in a week I masturbate has risen considerably. The addition of having Duo Maxwell as a roommate has also had a significant effect on the frequency. Duo has the habit of walking around the apartment naked when he thinks I’m not watching.

Of course, now that he knows that I _am_ watching, Duo walks naked around the apartment nearly every other day. Especially right out of the shower, with his hair down and sticking to his flushed skin. And I’ve noticed these little episodes have happened especially often this last week. Duo has some interesting ways of teasing me about this hand.

Contrary to what one might believe, beginning a sexual relationship with Duo has only increased, rather than decreased the frequency of my need to masturbate. It seems strange, now that I have this new, cooperative outlet for my sexual desire, that I would find myself more preoccupied by it than ever.

In fact, that was exactly what I was mulling over in my head as I absently programmed the training simulation. As it tends to do when I have such prurient matters on the brain, my attention wandered over to Duo, who was typing his code in a sluggish, preoccupied way, his mind on something else. His braid dangled over the back of his chair, moving slightly as Duo tapped bored feet on the floor. The fingers of my right hand itched again; if I was healed and not quite as far away, I would be sorely tempted to reach over and give that braid a tug.

Duo’s hair is, as he says quite often, a “pain in the ass.” In fact, he said that very thing yesterday when he slammed his braid in the car door. Nevertheless, I understand how attached Duo is to his hair; I’ve come to respect the comfort and symbolic importance it carries for him. Perhaps the first thing I noticed about the strange boy who shot me that day long ago was his impossibly long hair– what use could a soldier possibly have with hair that long? I thought it an unnecessary hassle, an easy target, a vanity best done away with.

Even then, it didn’t take me long to become intrigued with it, as everyone I assume eventually did. In those first cramped school dorm rooms we shared together, I watched Duo go through the ritual of brushing and braiding it, distracted and a bit mesmerized by its sheer length, its thickness, its shine. Those were still the days when sexual thoughts were infrequent and fleeting, but when they occurred, my mind’s eye especially enjoyed conjuring the image of miles of loose, flowing chestnut hair.

In fact, during our first time together, Duo’s hair had been loose; he’d told me later he was too tired to braid it that day. Above me, his hair had cascaded freely down his back, spilling down his sides when he’d leaned forward to kiss me. Even then, despite the activity, I was hesitant to play with it, run fingers through it, touch it possessively at all, really. I truthfully didn’t know what Duo’s reaction would be– I’ve seen the reaction he has when someone touches his hair without permission, the set of his jaw and the uncontrollable clench of his fists. However, sometime during the first month of regular sexual intimacy I finally asked Duo if I could unravel his braid and touch his hair for myself.

In response, Duo had said “hey babe, if it turns your gears.” I took his cryptic words to mean it was all right. I can now confirm that his hair is strikingly soft and thick, and I have found I find a certain captivation in watching it slip across my hands as I run my fingers through it.

Sometimes I still wonder if it’s not more of a hassle than it’s worth. It has the aggravating tendency to get caught in everything when it’s loose, and it inevitably ends up everywhere in the apartment. On the other hand, there is the feeling of it slipping against my skin, or getting tangled in Duo’s hand when he’s stroking me, or sliding against my thighs...

Do you understand the frustration over my inability to masturbate?

Duo sat back in his chair with a dramatic sigh though he’d only returned to typing code for an hour at the most. “It’s five o’clock,” he announced, his voice holding the decided ring of victory. “Time to go home!”

He was right– in fact, I’m sure he had been watching the clock for the last half hour in anticipation. I briefly entertained the idea of making him wait a little longer, but I had certainly had enough one-handed coding myself.

“Let’s go,” I said, leading the way out of the office. Duo swatted my bandaged hand out of the way when I tried to use it to close the door, pulling out his own set of keys before I could give him an argument. The doctors had said not to use it for anything, since the natural pull of the skin might cause the healing tissue to tear. I was loathe to agree with them, and itching to use my hand for something, so it was probably a good thing that my partner was nonchalantly watching out to make sure I didn’t hurt myself accidentally.

Duo drove on the way home. “I don’t know, man, I’m kind of liking this one hand thing,” he said through a wide grin, glancing at me– the captive audience– for a reaction. “I get to drive everywhere! And you can’t drive anything but automatic for another couple of weeks anyway.”

I frowned and shot him a glare, but I didn’t truly mind Duo’s teasing. I understand that Duo’s words are his outlet for his worry, and I suffer through them without much complaint, just as Duo suffers through my medical attention– _my_ outlet.

Several months ago it was Duo who had been injured and I who had been plagued by anxiety. That was actually the catalyst for our relationship. The hours of torturous waiting and the overwhelming relief I’d felt when I’d found Duo home safe and relatively sound made my emotions so raw and consuming that I’d inadvertently revealed them to Duo– as incredibly embarrassing as that was, I can’t say that the results weren’t worth it.

Duo was no sooner through the door of our apartment than he was walking into the bedroom we now shared, shedding clothes as he went and complaining loudly about having to wear a tie every day of the week. Whether he was talking to me or himself was irrelevant, as usual, but this regular chatter of his has become such an ingrained part of my life that I’m pretty sure I would feel the loss of it acutely. I mused over this as I picked up the tie and dress shirt that had been carelessly tossed on the floor in the wake of Hurricane Duo. I wasn’t so sure I would miss Duo’s untidiness quite as much.

When Duo reappeared from the bedroom, he was wearing a threadbare pair of gray sweatpants and, I noticed, one of _my_ tank tops. Well, I noticed that first, at least. The second thing I noticed was Duo was not wearing any underwear. In fact, he seemed to be flaunting it, his pants pulled low enough around his hips to reveal the slightest fringe of dark brown hair. He was singing something unintelligible under his breath as he walked to the kitchen, lyrics coming and going as he pleased as he pulled out a couple of beer bottles from the fridge.

I guessed that he was teasing me again. There was plenty of clean underwear left in the drawers; Duo had just done laundry yesterday. In addition, if Duo couldn't find a pair of his own, he had no qualms borrowing one of mine, the way he had just now helped himself to my tank top. That meant that Duo had purposely decided he wasn't going to wear underwear, just like he purposely decided he didn't need a towel as he waltzed around the bedroom in the morning.

I thought about the likelihood that I was correct. I had not participated in sexual relations with Duo in several days. Usually, when he was interested, he would blatantly make that fact known to me, as well as several of our neighbors with better hearing. Subtlety was unlike him, to say the least. So maybe this was just a joke of some kind, and he didn't mean for me to take it seriously.

Then again, I wanted it. Maybe I could try Duo's method tonight. I followed him into the kitchen.

Duo was pulling a large pot out of the cabinet, still singing to himself. “So, Heero,” he said when he noticed me enter. “What'll it be, macaroni and cheese, or pancakes? If you don't want either of those, tough shit, because I don't know how to make anything else.”

By way of reply, I reached out and grabbed him by his hips, pulling him against me. I was right; no underwear.

“It's still early for dinner.”

Duo laughed. “You're such a romantic, baby.”

Duo likes to call me 'baby'. It's an odd term, and the first time he used it, I wondered if he was implying I was infantile in some respect. However, I have heard him call Hilde “babe” on the phone, and has even used the term with Noin, when we are in casual situations. I have deduced that it is a nickname intended to show affection. Never mind that in a literal sense, the meaning is strange at best. I am definitely _not_ a baby. But, because it's Duo, I just accept that it isn't supposed to be taken literally.

Duo's hips shifted beneath my hands, and he turned so we were face to face. The hand that wasn't holding the pot slid around my shoulders. He pulled me toward him for a deep, slow kiss.

“Mmm, say, Heero,” Duo said finally, breaking away. His hand moved down my back suggestively. “Do you think your charbroiled hand would be a problem if we did the nasty?”

I assumed he was talking about sex. Sometimes talking to Duo feels like speaking in a different language. I considered his question for a moment.

“I've performed strenuous physical activity with worse injuries, and I've never had a problem. It should be fine.”

Duo laughed. Putting the pot down on the counter, he pulled me in for another kiss. “I love it when you talk dirty.”

We made our way into the bedroom. Duo jumped on the bed, then turned to remove my shirt for me. I brought my bandaged hand up to help and he swatted it away.

“This better not fuck your hand up again,” Duo said. “I'd never live down _that_ trip to the doctor.”

He pushed my shirt off my shoulders and threw it into a corner of the room. No doubt I'd be picking it up later; Duo would certainly forget it had even existed by the time we were through. It wasn't truly necessary that Duo take my clothes off for me. I had been dressing myself perfectly fine since the injury occurred. I let him, though, because it seemed to make him feel better. I wanted him to be able to enjoy tonight too, not worry about me.

Duo waited until I was naked before he started undressing himself. “You just stay there and look hot, Yuy,” he said, but I didn't want to wait. I reached out to touch the skin Duo was exposing to me. His warm, broad chest was soft under my fingers. Once again, I cursed the loss of my right hand-- I wanted to feel more of him beneath me. I was already aroused by the time Duo pulled his sweatpants off and let them pool at the foot of the bed.

“Come here, baby,” he said, grinning, and pulled me on top of him.

I kissed his mouth hungrily. The tension and frustration of the last week morphed quickly into excitement, and I swept his lips with my tongue, nibbling and sucking his lower lip, the way that made me so aroused when he did it. He moaned beneath me and tangled his fingers in my hair. His tongue found mine and soon my breath was hot and ragged and I was panting against his mouth, propped up on my good hand, grinding our bodies together instinctively.

Suddenly, Duo was rolling us over, grabbing my hand roughly and bringing it to close around his erection, hot and heavy in my palm. “Fucking touch me,” he growled in my ear.

I pumped him roughly, as he shifted to kiss my neck and run his hands down my sides, along my chest. I was pretty familiar with the way Duo liked to be touched by now, and soon he was moaning, a steady stream of interjections and curse words breathed against my skin between swipes of his tongue.

“Mm, Heero.” His hand was at the base of my neck, and he brought his lips up again to meet mine. Then, he was gazing down at me with dark eyes, his ever present smile a wide grin.

“How do you want me?” he breathed. Then, a moan as I continued to touch him. “And think fast, buddy, cuz I'm going to come if you keep that up.”

I considered my options. If I was on top, I could watch him, but I would have to balance on my one good hand and I wouldn't be able to touch. That wouldn't do, I decided. “Get on your hands and knees,” I ordered.

“Roger that,” he said with a laugh, and then he was releasing himself from my hand to move on the bed, facing away from me. I paused to take in the sight of the broad, smooth planes of his back, the soft curve of his ass, and reached out instinctively to palm it in my hand. It was amazing to me how I had survived a week without this. I felt like I might lose control just touching him. It was almost embarrassing; maybe with anyone else, it would be. With Duo, though, I had long ago discovered he had this effect on me, this power to make me feel such strong emotion, almost against my will. I ached to grasp it, define it, give it words, the way normal people, who hadn't undergone years of training just to deaden these feelings, could so easily. I found that I couldn't, not yet, though I felt them so strongly that being here with Duo like this made me almost desperate to try.

“Top drawer, Heero,” Duo growled, impatient. He glanced over his shoulder at me, his thick braid of hair slipping down his back.

That brought me back to the activity at hand. I smirked and pulled the small bottle out of the night stand by the bed. Since that first time we had stopped bothering with condoms; we had almost immediately decided we were monogamous. Neither of us, it turned out, were even thinking about other people. I squeezed some of the viscous, slippery liquid into my palm and rubbed it onto my erection, then slipped my fingers between Duo's soft, smooth cheeks and applied it there, too.

“Yesss,” Duo hissed, spreading his legs apart. “I'm ready, Yuy. Let's make this happen.”

I, too, was more than ready, thoughts only on Duo's body and what I wanted to do with it. I positioned myself between his legs and slowly worked myself inside him, guiding myself with a hand. Duo moaned, arching his back, his broad shoulders working as he moved beneath me. I drank in the sight.

When I was fully inside, I paused to let Duo acclimate, my hands reaching out instinctively for that thick rope of chestnut hair. Duo watched me over his shoulder, smirking as I ran its length between my fingers.

“You've got a thing for the hair, don't you, Yuy?” He breathed.

I snorted. “Shut up.”

He suddenly thrust against me, his smile shifting into a smirk. “You'll have to make me.”

I groaned and let go of his hair; my hand moved downward and gripped his thigh instead. I began to thrust deeply into him, pulling out and forcefully entering him again. If he had meant that comment literally, this was having the opposite effect. Duo became louder with each thrust.

“Heero!” He cried, biting his lip and meeting my thrusts with his hips. “Fuck, that feels good...”

I increased speed, rhythmically pounding into him. Duo moaned my name, his hand reaching blindly back for mine and curling it around his erection. I pumped him in time with my thrusts, fascinated at the way he writhed beneath me. I wanted to watch his back arch as he came, the way it did in my mind when I masturbated to thoughts of him.

“Fuuuck, Heero, don't stop,” Duo sighed, breath ragged, “fuck me harder.”

I growled, slamming against him with all my strength, pulling out and in again with abandon, working him roughly with my hand. I wouldn't last at this rate, but I couldn't stop. Duo's body was intoxicating, the heat and friction inside him making my head spin. It didn't seem to matter how many times we did this, I couldn't get tired of it. It just made me even hungrier.

“Heero, mm, just like that... yes... fuck _yes_!” Duo cried, suddenly rearing off the bed, and my hand was flooded sticky and hot. His body tightened around me; I closed my eyes and groaned, and then I was exploding into him, pumping blindly into that wet, intoxicating heat. I exhaled as the last drops were sucked out of me and collapsed against his back, both of us sweaty and spent.

After a while, Duo maneuvered us into a spooning position on the bed, his back to mine. I worked my good hand up under him to snake around his waist. He sighed contentedly. His eyes slid closed and for some time we just lay there together.

Finally, he shifted in my arms and turned to me. “I don't know about you, but I worked up a little bit of an appetite just now,” he said, grinning and looking me up and down. “How do you feel about dinner?”

“Can you seriously only make macaroni and cheese or pancakes?”

“Why, Yuy, I'm _always_ serious!” He laughed. “Listen, I ain't exactly a four star chef, buddy. If you want me to venture out of my comfort zone, you gotta be prepared to deal with the consequences.”

I snorted.

“I promise I'll drive to the hospital if necessary,” he continued, laughing at his own joke.

I nodded. “Understood.”

With that, Duo propped himself up on his arms and brought his mouth to mine in a deep, lazy kiss. When he pulled away, he gazed at me with amusement. “Glad to see you trust me, baby.

“Well, I guess I could try to make some steaks!”

He hopped off the bed, picking up the sweatpants he'd left on the floor and pulling them on. Stretching, he ran a hand through his bangs, then turned and smiled at me.

“Love you,” he said, before wandering out of the bedroom.

I lay back on the bed, wanting to stay there a moment longer before I joined him in the kitchen.

Despite what Duo said, he knew that I trusted him. I trusted him with my life, and also with the daunting prospect of learning to say 'I love you, too', even though I know it's the truth. I can feel it whenever I touch him, even look at him.

And, because he understood what I needed to overcome, Duo wasn't pushing me to try. My partner, my best friend, and my lover, he would wait for me until I was ready. And just like I knew my hand would soon be healed, I knew that soon I would be able to put words to the emotions I felt. It would just take time. And he would help me there.


End file.
